


Pour Some Syrup on Me

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drama, Established Relationship, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-12
Updated: 2006-08-12
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8701627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: In "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" Sam wanted to lick syrup off Dean, this would be his opportunity.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Title:** Pour Some Syrup on Me  
**Author:** merepersiflage  
**Pairings/Characters:** Sam/Dean   
**Rating:** 18+  
**Category:** smut, slash, and more smut  
**Word Count:** 9000  
**Spoilers:** pre-series  
**Summary:** In “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” Sam wanted to lick syrup off Dean, this would be his opportunity.   
**Warnings:** Underage Wincest (Sam is sixteen) incest, graphic sex, language   
**Disclaimer:** I didn’t create these wonderful characters, but we all learned to share in kindergarten, didn’t we? I play well with others. It said so on my report card. I intend no harm and will make no profit.  
**Notes:** I’m really sorry about the total lameness of the title. This fic is dedicated to Her Majesty, the queen of all cappers, [ ](http://queenpersina.livejournal.com/profile)[**queenpersina**](http://queenpersina.livejournal.com/)  
[ ](http://la-folle-allure.livejournal.com/profile)[**la_folle_allure**](http://la-folle-allure.livejournal.com/) did a rockin' beta for me. I love you, baby.   
  
  
  
  
**Pour Some Syrup on Me**  
merepersiflage  
  
Frosted windows sucked the last bit of strength from the January sun, but even with the lights off it was bright enough in the kitchen to see the edges of the pancake turn dry enough to flip.   
  
Dean staggered into the kitchen in just his jeans, sniffing deeply. “Sammy?” Doncha have school?”  
  
“Teacher conference.”  
  
Dean moved stiffly as he poured himself a cup of coffee.   
  
“Dad?”   
  
“Went to restock the armory. Told me to let you sleep. Said he’d be back after dark.” Sam slid the finished pancake onto the stack and ladled another one into the empty spot in the pan.   
  
“I do something to piss you off again?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Dean stepped closer. “Are those chocolate chips?”  
  
“Nah, mouse turds.”  
  
“My favorite. Sammy, you rock.”  
  
Dean grabbed the top pancake, blew on it, and shoved it into his mouth. His right arm stayed pressed against his ribs.  
  
“How’s your shoulder?”  
  
“It’s fine.” Dean did not meet his eyes, and Sam took out a little frustration on the pancake, slamming it over.  
  
“Couple more separations and you won’t even need to pick the hand cuffs. You’ll be able to just take off your arm and leave it.   
  
“Heh. That’ll be convenient.”  
  
Sam threw the spatula onto the counter. “I hate him.”  
  
“Who? The demon?”  
  
“Dad.”  
  
Dean looked like he’d taken a punch to the gut. “What the hell, Sam?”  
  
“He’s gonna get you killed.”  
  
“Aw, you’re just mad because he left you behind.”  
  
“No, I’m not.”  
  
Sam had been thinking about this since last night when Dad had dragged a staggering Dean through the door.   
  
Dean had glanced up with glittering eyes and smiled. “We got the son of a bitch, Sam.”  
  
For just a second, Sam had gone dizzy with relief. It was finally over. Then he’d looked back at his dad and knew Dean hadn’t meant _that_ son of a bitch. Just a regular hunt. He’d looked back at his brother’s eyes and read the pain and a little buzz from whatever Dad had given him to drink before he popped his shoulder back in. The right, again.   
  
Then and there, Sam’d made his decision. As soon as he turned eighteen he was out of here. And he was taking Dean with him. Dad wasn’t going to kill Dean with his stupid obsession. All he had to do now was make sure Dean came with him when he left.   
  
“He wouldn’t have taken me no matter what,” Sam pointed out. “He doesn’t want me around demons. Says I’m ‘not ready’.”  
  
“Yeah, well, we coulda used you last night, I’ll give you that.” Dean stuffed another pancake into his mouth.  
  
Sam scraped out the pancake he’d let burn and finished off the batter. “Milk expired yesterday.” Sam said as he got syrup out of the fridge.   
  
“I’ll go get some later.”  
  
“And we’re out of bread.”  
  
“Got it.” Dean stood guard in front of the plate holding the pancakes. “You’re not going to put syrup on chocolate chip pancakes are you? That’s like sugar on Frosted Flakes.”  
  
“But I put sugar on Frosted Flakes. Maybe the syrup isn’t for the pancakes.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Sam squeezed the bottle and a sticky glop landed smack in the middle of Dean’s chest.   
  
“What the fuck, Sammy?”  
  
Sam leaned forward and licked the syrup. It felt way too nice. Sweet sap and his brother’s skin beneath, oh god if Dean would just let him—  
  
“You tellin’ me I’m not sweet enough?” Dean’s mouth twisted.   
  
“You know I have a sweet tooth.”   
  
“What?” But Dean was smiling. “You do more of your—heh— _special_ research?”  
  
Sam shook his head. “Just wanted to.”  
  
Dean leaned forward and lapped at the stickiness of Sam’s lips. The sensation gave Sam vertigo, and he had to put a hand on the counter to steady himself.   
  
“So, Sammy’s a little kinky.” Dean said as he pulled back. He took the syrup bottle and brushed his finger across the top before bringing it to Sam’s lips.   
  
Sam sucked it in with a hunger that made them both gasp. Sweet and salty, Dean’s skin still smelling like sleep, tasting like syrup. Sam sucked harder, and Dean’s eyes bored into his as his full lips parted with a moan.  
  
“Make you a deal.” Dean whispered on a tight breath. “Whoever comes first cleans up the kitchen.”   
  
Sam released his brother’s finger. “Okay.” And then he remembered. “Aw, hell.”  
  
Dean’s smug look should not have been so sexy. “Thought maybe you could use a little incentive.”   
  
“Freaking jerk.”  
  
“I’m still gonna win.”  
  
“Not this time.” Sam spun off the burner, grabbed the bottle and aimed it at Dean’s nipple.   
  
“You’re out of your league, Sammy.”   
  
“Take off your jeans unless you want’em covered in syrup.”  
  
“Still gonna win.” Dean unbuttoned his fly and hooked his thumbs in his waistband.   
  
Not for the first time Sam thought that he couldn’t wait to kiss that smirk off his brother’s face. He leaned forward as soon as his brother stepped out of his pants and fastened himself on Dean’s lips. Sweet syrup, bitter coffee and Dean. His aftershave stung Sam’s nostrils as he fed off his brother’s mouth. Their chests rubbed together, smearing the syrup all over.   
  
“Oh, that’s gonna feel so good.”   
  
And Sam knew just what Dean was talking about. That heavy thick stickiness all over their dicks. “Oh, god.”  
  
“Sure you didn’t research this, Sammy?”  
  
Sam nodded.   
  
“Hell, little bro’s a perfect perv on his own then.”  
  
Sam trailed his hand through the syrup on Dean’s chest and then reached for his dick.   
  
The satiny shaft seemed to jump to meet his hand. As Sam smeared the syrup around the head, Dean arched into his touch with a moan.   
  
“Just-ahh-wait, Sammy. You have no idea how good that feels.”  
  
Sam spread the syrup lower, sliding down the shaft. Dean began pushing through his fist in his usual slow, steady rhythm. Sam stopped to lick his fingers, locking eyes with his brother.  
  
Dean winked at him, sending Sam’s stomach on an express elevator down to his feet, and then Dean was shoving his pajama bottoms off his hips.   
  
Sam kicked them away, and Dean grabbed the syrup, squeezing a huge glop into his hand.   
  
Sam tilted his hips forward, but Dean didn’t reach for him. Instead, with his upper arm still braced against his body, he dipped a finger into his palm and painted Sam’s lips, following the syrup with a quick darting tongue. It flicked over his lips too fast to catch, and Sam wanted to whine and beg to come already.   
  
He opened his mouth for a deeper kiss, but Dean lifted his head and came back with a finger dripping with syrup. The smell hit him first, so sweet it made his jaw ache. Then the touch, thick and warm on him, just like a kiss. Dean coated every inch of Sam’s lips before sucking his finger clean and sliding his lips back and forth across Sam’s.   
  
Dean kept his hips back so only their lips were touching. Hot, slippery, sweet. Sam was so very far out of his league.  
  
His brother leaned back, and Sam watched the evil grin spread across his brother’s face. “Hey, sugar lips.”   
  
Sam kicked his shin, but Dean just laughed.  
  
Now he slicked the syrup down his neck, over his shoulders, following with his sticky mouth and tongue. He made a perfect path down his sternum. Sam’s skin felt paper-thin, so sensitive to that sticky touch, that burning mouth.  
  
Before Dean got to Sam’s navel, he straightened up and rubbed a syrupy thumb over Sam’s nipple but didn’t lick it. Sam was too frozen in lust to even protest as Dean put his mouth on the spot over it, sucking the stretched skin into his mouth and fitting his teeth on it. Yeah, since they’d made the move to more oral action over Christmas, Dean had definitely figured out how much Sam liked to be bitten.   
  
When Dean finally brought his syrupy palm down over Sam’s dick, he pressed his chest against Sam’s and all of him was slippery and hot and god, Dean was right because having the heavy touch of drippy syrup all over his dick felt almost as good as Dean’s mouth. He thought it couldn’t get better and then Dean’s hand was gliding on that film, sweeping a slick thumb over the crown, and Sam’s hips tilted all on their own.   
  
“This is it, Sammy. You’ve got five minutes to make me come before I lick all that syrup off of you. You do know where we keep the mop, right?”  
  
Sam tried to drop onto his knees, but Dean kept him up with a tight press of a sticky hand against his back.   
  
“Legs wobbly?”  
  
“No.”  
  
But Dean spun him until his back was up against the counter anyway. As if it wasn’t already hard enough to keep his freaking balance. Dean ground against him, syrup slicking the way for hot, hard dicks to rub against each other, and Sam almost came right there.   
  
Sam brought his hands down between them, one on Dean’s cock, one like a vice around the base of his own. It helped a little to push him back from that perfect edge of tension. But only a little, because then Dean was kissing him, their sticky, sweet lips, tongues, chests, everything rubbing together and it felt so freaking good, the need to come was clawing in his balls, his hand around his dick forcing it painfully back into his spine. He worked his hand faster over Dean’s cock, trying all the tricks Dean had shown him, but Dean had them pressed so tight against the counter that there wasn’t a lot of room for finesse.   
  
His hand slid over that silky slippery skin, pulling and twisting and all he could think of was how dark sweet and hot that was gonna be in his mouth, and that image so did not help. His hips jerked, and he bit his lip.   
  
Dean reached between them and his fingers found Sam’s wrapped around the base of his swollen dick. “You little cheater.”   
  
He pulled on Sam’s wrist hard enough to make him stroke himself and holy shit—  
  
“Game over, Sammy.”   
  
Dean dropped to his knees and grinned up at him. “You’re gonna look cute crawling around to scrub this floor.” And then he took him in his mouth.   
  
Sam was too far gone to protest or resist, because oh, god, god, _god_ Dean’s tongue was working overtime on his syrupy dick, slick fingers sliding over his balls, tugging and pressing just right. And then one finger pressed down on the tight skin below his balls, and Sam thought he broke the standing vertical leap record.   
  
When he came back down, he was gone. Hips bucking out of control, come burning through him like liquid fire, and he’d clean a dozen kitchens to feel like this.  
  
But when he finally opened his eyes, he was still competitive enough to check and see if Dean had finished himself off. Nope. Shit.  
  
Sam was gripping the counter so tightly his fingers ached. He peeled off one sticky hand at a time and dropped down to face his brother.  
  
“I won.”  
  
“Yeah, well I think _you_ cheated.”  
  
Dean just stretched out on the kitchen floor. Sam knew if his hands weren’t sticky and his shoulder sore, he’d have folded his arms behind his head.   
  
“Still won.”  
  
In that pose, there was no denying the proof of that. Dean was hard as a pike, his dick pressed right up against his stomach. Sam took him in his hand, and Dean sighed and rocked up into his fist.   
  
Sam’s mouth watered at the thought of sucking Dean off while tasting all that sweet syrup. He could have taken the time to torment his brother, to pay him back for being so freakin’ superior, so damned cocky, but it was like having free run in a candy store, and Sam didn’t wait another second before diving in.   
  
God, it felt so good it was going to make him hard again. Pleasure rolled down his tongue, his throat, all the way to his belly. Dean’s groans, the feel of that soft skin over hard heat and the taste, salt and sweet, his favorite combination.   
  
Dean’s hips were rocking gently, and Sam wanted to make him lose control the way Dean had done to him. He looked up along Dean’s chest. Dean’s eyes were closed, face relaxed, but his hands were twitching against the linoleum, his thighs tensing under Sam’s hands.   
  
What had Dean done to him? Oh yeah. And if a finger there felt that amazing—Sam pressed his tongue between Dean’s balls, squeezing them within the sac. Dean’s hips picked up the pace, and Sam moved his hand back up over his brother’s dick as he let his tongue slip lower on that sugary skin, until he was stroking it hard against that tight stretch of skin below Dean’s ball sac.   
  
“Fucking _hell_ , Sammy.”  
  
Dean reached down and pulled Sam’s head back up. His brother was nothing if not a quick study and Dean knew he deserved to be taken out and shot for—  
  
Holy fucking shit! Sammy took him so motherfucking deep that if he didn’t come right the hell now he’d be fucking his baby brother’s face. Sammy didn’t seem to mind the idea over much, because he was sucking him up against the back of his throat and damned if Dean’s first orgasm as a 21 year old wasn’t the best of his friggin’ life.   
  
Sammy lay panting on his belly, and Dean figured he’d probably gotten hard again. He was really going to do something about that as soon as he remembered how the fuck to move.   
  
“Hey.” Damn. His voice was hoarse. He tried for something a little closer to normal. “Hey, your hair’s getting all sticky.”  
  
“Gotta shower anyways.”  
  
“I’ll-uh-help you with the kitchen.”  
  
“’S okay.”  
  
He tugged at Sammy, wanting him up further where he could reach his dick. He felt more than saw Sam’s wince when his hand came down hard on his brother’s lower back.   
  
“What?” Dean shifted to look. There was a red line running across Sam’s back. “Oh. Sorry I made you jump like that. Didn’t mean to scare you.”  
  
“Yeah. ‘Cause I always come like crazy when I’m scared.” And Sammy’s voice got softer and more serious. “But, you know, we could try . . . that sometime if you wanted.”  
  
His brother couldn’t say it but he could offer to try it? The level of trust his brother placed in him was enough to make Dean proud and queasy at the same time.   
  
“I mean, I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”  
  
Shooting was too damn good for him. He should be cut into little pieces and fed to a werewolf. Suddenly, he wanted to be anywhere else. But Sammy was literally stuck to him and his post-orgasm legs weren’t quite up to taking him anywhere yet.   
  
“Dean, when we get our own house—”  
  
“Our what?”  
  
“Our own house.” Sam repeated. “I mean when I turn 18 and we can get out on our own.”  
  
“Whoa, kid.” Dean laughed, but it sounded thick and it was because of Sam’s weight on him and not the pressure his brother was laying on him. He forced more laughter out, shrugging away the pressure, and Sammy sighed, blowing at his sticky hair.   
  
“That’s just not going to happen,” Dean explained. “I’m going to keep on hunting. With Dad. With you. That’s all I want to do.”  
  
Sammy jabbed at his shoulder.  
  
“Ow! What the hell was that for.”  
  
“Because you’re hurt. And sooner or later you’re going to die.”  
  
“Yeah. Everybody does, sooner or later.”  
  
“Well, I don’t want it to be sooner.”  
  
“It’s not going to be. But Sammy, none of us are going to die in our beds. That’s just how this life is.”  
  
Sam pushed off him, ripping away some serious layers of skin as he did, and sat in a classic Sammy pout, sticky chin on bony knee.   
  
“That’s why I don’t want it. C’mon, Dean. There’s more to life than hunting.”  
  
“Yeah. There’s eating, sleeping, and oh, yeah,” he snaked his good arm beneath Sammy’s bent leg and stroked his dick. “This.”  
  
Sammy was almost totally hard, and after a few strokes he was out to full length. Sam closed his eyes and gasped. “Don’t think—”  
  
“You stop thinking first. C’mon, Sammy. I don’t want to fight today.”  
  
Sam’s breaths were coming faster and his head came off his knee with a small tearing sound as he let his legs drop open.   
  
“Dean.” Sammy’s voice was almost a whine. “Don’t you want—”  
  
“I want you to shut up.” Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he pushed himself up and shut Sammy’s mouth with his. Sometimes kissing him was fucking self-defense.   
  
Their mouths together were musty, salty and deep, dark sugar. Sammy whimpered and arched into his grip. As soon as Sam slid down against him, Dean relaxed back with a sigh as the weight came off his shoulder.   
  
He kept kissing Sammy and as his brother went deeper and deeper into pleasure, his tongue started fucking Dean’s mouth.   
  
Dean rubbed the callous of his trigger finger against the underside of Sam’s crown.   
  
Sammy whimpered again, his body tensing then relaxing, his mouth now soft and needy. Dean loved him like this, when he was clinging to him as if he depended on Dean for his very existence.   
  
When Dean pressed down on his slit, Sammy fell onto his back, his neck twisted so he could keep kissing Dean, spitting moans, curses and pleas into his brother’s mouth.   
  
Dean kept up a steady, light rhythm, stroke-pull-rub-press, until Sam was desperate, twisting and arching for the touch that would send him.   
  
Sam ripped his mouth away. “Harder, dammit.”  
  
“Is that anyway to talk to your big brother?”  
  
He’d kill them both before admitting it out loud, but Sam was absolutely beautiful like this. Hair sticking out wildly, lips open in a delicious pout, neck roped with tendons from the strain. And it was the only time his baby brother ever really swore.   
  
“Fuck, Dean.”  
  
That break in Sam’s voice was almost enough to get Dean started again and they’d spend the whole day in the kitchen.   
  
“Now. Please.”  
  
Dean gave him what he needed, hard and fast pressure to send him spurting onto his hand and Sammy’s chest.   
  
Sammy was panting again, arms trembling.   
  
“And I think I _totally_ win now.”  
  
“Whatever. I said I’d do it.”  
  
Sammy was the only person Dean knew who could be so fucking pissy after a good come. He knew he was still cranky about their earlier argument, but he really didn’t want to get into it again. Especially not today.  
  
“Whatever floats your boat, bro.”  
  
Dean pushed off the kitchen floor, wiping his hand on the linoleum.   
  
Sammy sighed in disgust and pulled his pajama bottoms back on. That was going to make laundry a bitch this week and the little shit knew it.   
  
“I’m going to catch a shower.” Dean pinched his own clothes between a thumb and finger, letting the weight pull on his sore shoulder rather than make more laundry problems for himself. “Milk, you said?”  
  
“Yeah, and bread. And we’re running low on coffee. And syrup.”  
  
“That’s a shock.”   
  
But Sammy didn’t laugh. “You want anymore of these?” He lifted the plate of pancakes.   
  
Dean grabbed one off the top in his syrupy, comey hand and stuffed it into his mouth.   
  
“You’re disgusting.”  
  
“Didn’t think so while you were serving it hot.”  
  
Sammy blushed and looked away.  
  
“I’m done.” Dean grabbed his cold coffee and headed for the shower.   
  
He heard the pancakes hit the garbage with a thick smack. He doubted it was a coincidence that the trash was only a few inches from where he was walking out the door.   
  
The trailer they were renting wasn’t that small, but even over the shower Dean could hear Sammy slamming around in the kitchen.   
  
He was still doing more banging than cleaning when Dean dressed and left, hitching to town to the grocery store.  
  
There were worse ways to spend his birthday, he knew. His nineteenth had been a real bitch, digging up a half an acre to find the scattered bones of some cranky-assed spirit, but he did think someone in his family might have remembered and said something.   
  
Dean picked his way through the grocery aisles. When he stopped for the syrup he felt his face get warm and had to fight his dick’s response to just handling the bottle. He glanced over at the honey. That stuff was heavier and not as sweet as the fake syrup Sammy preferred. They’d have to try honey sometime. He let his fingers touch the jar of honey that just matched the color of Sammy’s skin. He could just imagine it running off his hips as he poured it over his dick.   
  
Maybe he shouldn’t have laughed at Sammy, but did the kid really think they were going to set up housekeeping like two gay guys on some sitcom? It wasn’t that Dean minded doing guys, and he loved what he did with Sammy, but he was not cut out for that kind of—domestic shit. After six months in one spot—hell, after six weeks, he got a little stir crazy. He couldn’t imagine coming back to the same house everyday forever.   
  
Even if Sammy was in it.   
  
But he’d make up for laughing at him when he got home. Without the honey. Because he didn’t feel like washing the sheets right now.   
  
But when he got home, Sam was studiously ignoring him—literally, because he had his cute nose buried in some school book. Dean waited to see if Sammy would give in, gave it his best lean on the door, legs crossed at the ankle. Sammy never turned a page, but he wouldn’t look up either. And the lean was killing his shoulder.  
  
Dean stepped back out of their room. He checked over the sparkling kitchen. Nothing that would tip Dad off about their morning adventures, but he thought about how hard it was gonna be not to blush every time he looked at the counter, or the floor, or the fridge, or a bottle of syrup. Fuck, the counter and the syrup alone were gonna give him wood forever. And looking at the scratched up yellow linoleum he could still hear Sammy’s devastating offer. _We could try_ that _sometime if you wanted._ He stalked out of the trailer before he marched back into their room and got them into something that would really tempt the wrath of God . . . and Dad.  
  
He slipped around to the back of the trailer and paced around the scrubby brush. He wished they were hunting something new tonight. He really wanted to kill something. That’d be a good birthday present.  
  
Through the tiny window he could see Sam at his table, head still bent over his book. Dean was just as proud as Dad of Sam being such a smart kid—though Dean usually tended to express that as _smartass_.  
  
He heard the familiar engine and came around to the front of the trailer.  
  
“Hey son, how’s the shoulder?” Dad clapped him on his left.   
  
“Better.”  
  
Dad was pulling some ammo and a shotgun out of the car.  
  
“Good. Get Sammy. I’ve got some new rounds I want to show you boys.”  
  
Dean went to get his brother, knowing full well what his reaction was going to be.   
  
“Dad wants us.”  
  
“Great.” Sam’s pencil kept moving across the paper.   
  
“I think he meant now, Sammy.”  
  
Sammy flung the pencil down and dropped his books on the bed.  
  
“Auditioning for another play, drama boy?”  
  
Sammy huffed, a sure sign he had no comeback.   
  
“Sooner you do it, the sooner you can get back to your algebra.”   
  
“Trig.”  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
Dad was already at the little shooting range they had in the back. He hugged Sammy hello. “How was school, son?”  
  
“We had the day off.”  
  
“I want to show you boys these new rounds before it gets dark. Three inch Magnums for the Winchester.”   
  
Dean always felt a sense of pride that they shared a name with the coolest gun in the world.   
  
“It’s going to give you a little different feel than the two and three-quarter shells.”  
  
Dean took the shotgun and raised it to his shoulder.   
  
“Get a feel for’em and then we’ll try it moving and a little farther back.”  
  
Dad might not have said anything, but the new bigger rounds were as good as a birthday present. Despite the fucking rip against his sore shoulder, they made as sweet sound as they tore into the fruit hanging from the branches.   
  
Sammy made all his shots, as well and Dean clapped him on the back of the neck. Sammy jerked away as if Dean had burned him. He was still pissed.   
  
While they reloaded again, Dad went to start the tire swinging. They had a little trailer tire with a paper bullseye set in the center on a rope. Dad always wanted them making shots at 70 plus yards. The heavier rounds were going to be tricky.  
  
Dean sighted and controlled the curse of pain as the butt slammed back against his shoulder.   
  
After a few rounds, just when Dean thought he was going to have to say something because he absolutely could not let that gun kick him one more time, Dad called a halt and went out to check the target. “Four out of five. Not bad.”  
  
Dean knew it was the last shot that had gone wide. The pain was making his arm shake.   
  
Sammy reloaded the gun, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. Dad hung up a new bullseye and set the tire swinging at a good clip before coming to stand next to Sammy.  
  
Sammy’s first shot jumped off the tire. “Lead it, Sammy. Come on.” Sammy stuck the bangs up on his head with a lick of spit and aimed again.   
  
Dean sometimes wondered if Dad would notice if _he_ missed four out of five, but he always watched Sammy so closely. It was because Dad worried about Sammy, they both did, worried about all the things out there that could kill him, but Dean knew it didn’t feel like that to Sammy. It just felt like Dad was picking on him.   
  
Sometimes Dean was tempted to do it, to miss, to see if Dad would notice and take a little heat off Sammy. But he knew what Sammy had to face and neither one of them could go soft on him for this.   
  
The more Dad pushed, the more Sammy missed and Dean could feel the tension building until it made his teeth ache. At last Sammy squeezed off five perfect shots in a row.   
  
“That’s my boy. Nice shooting. Did you like the new rounds, Dean?”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“That was better, Sammy. I told you at that distance you have to lead it a bit more.”  
  
“Yes, sir.” But there couldn’t have been less respect in Sammy’s tone.  
  
Dad just sighed and stopped, his hand just about to ruffle Sam’s hair. “So is there anything in this place to eat?”  
  
Dean had bought himself his favorite salami.   
  
“Cold cuts.” His sandwich wouldn’t be as thick, but there was enough to share.  
  
“Sounds great.” Dad ruffled Dean’s hair, and Dean wondered how old he’d have to be before Dad stopped doing that.  
  
When he went to his room after dinner, Sammy was no where to be seen, still off pouting—whether he was still pissed at Dean or now pissed at Dad was anybody’s guess—but there was a lumpy bundle of newspaper on Dean’s bed.  
  
Sammy remembered. Dean thought about the chocolate chip pancakes and knew Sammy had remembered all day.   
  
He sat on the bed and tugged the package onto his lap. It was heavy.   
  
He tore off the paper.   
  
It was a fucking gorgeous hunting knife: six inch blade, nice weight and balance, the handle made for his hand, cradled in a supple leather sheath. He sat staring at it, his fingers caressing the handle.  
  
Sammy had no money of his own, and he hated doing anything illegal. He wouldn’t have stolen it, and he couldn’t have bought it unless—  
  
Dean jumped up and ransacked the table that served as Sammy’s desk. He wouldn’t have, would he? Sammy’d had it forever. Protected in plastic, it was his one connection to Mom’s family, and he’d sworn he’d never give it up. Their oldest cousin had taught him to read with it; Sammy was reading when he was only four. An early Wolverine X-Men comic. And it was gone.  
  
Dean was now officially the worst big brother in the world.   
  
Shit, shit, shit. He tore out of the room so fast he almost knocked his shoulder into the wall.   
  
“Dad?” Dean came up behind his father’s chair in the living room. “Where’d Sammy go?”  
  
His father’s face was shadow and light from the television. There were already two empties on the table next to him and the bottle he tipped back was almost gone, but his voice was steady and clear. “Took the bus to the library.”  
  
“I’m gonna go pick him up.”  
  
“All right.”  
  
At least it wasn’t a Jack night. But Dad wouldn’t be leaving that chair.   
  
“Night, Dad.”  
  
“Night, Dean.”  
  
*  
  
Sam sent his essay to the printer and started to log off, but he couldn’t resist going back to the Stanford pages again. Everything about Stanford was absolutely perfect and completely hopeless. He looked again at the admissions profile, at those class ranks. It was a little freakin’ difficult to have a class rank when your records rarely arrived before you were off to a different school. And extra curricular activities? Some how he doubted taking only five shots to adjust to new three inch rounds and hit a moving target at 70 yards was quite what the admissions office was looking for.   
  
He heard a familiar tramp behind him and closed the window in a panic.  
  
“You ‘bout done, Sammy?”  
  
Sam tried to find his breath. Had Dean seen what he was looking at?   
  
“I-uh-just gotta pick up and pay for my printing.”  
  
“I can wait if you want.” Dean sounded unusually . . . diffident, a word Sam’d just practiced on an SAT program.   
  
“No. I’m done. I was just goofing around.”  
  
“You can get internet porn at the library?” Now that was Dean.  
  
Sam had no idea, but he didn’t want Dean back browsing on that computer while he went to pick up his paper. “They block anything good.”  
  
“So you’ve tried? That’s a boy.”  
  
Dean stayed next to the computer as Sam went to pick up his essay Sam just barely controlled the urge to drum his fingers against the counter as the ancient man at the media center desk moved in millimeter long increments. He knew any signs of impatience would only make the guy go slower.   
  
When he finally got back to Dean, his brother was standing exactly where he’d left him, staring intently at the log-in screen. As soon as Sam was at his side, the look of concentration disappeared in his usual sly grin.   
  
“Bet you’ll be glad to be done with school, eh, Sammy?”  
  
Sam felt his intestines twist into a knot. “Still got a year and a half left.”  
  
Dean waited at the door while Sam shrugged into his jacket. He was still grinning, but his eyes held Sam’s in a long stare. Crap. He knew that old man had taken too goddamn long. He met Dean’s gaze dead on. Backing down never helped. At last Dean’s brow arched. An acknowledgement? A question? Sam didn’t want to find out which. He turned and they hit the library doors together, and Sam saw the Impala waiting for them down the block. Dean just stood on the steps, and Sam looked back at him.   
  
“So, you drivin’?” Again there was the hint of something not like Dean in his voice. It made the knots double and triple. What wasn’t Dean saying?  
  
“All right.” He reached into his pocket for the key Dean had given him at Christmas.   
  
It was as if Dean was trying to be extra nice to him for some reason, like he had bad news or something. Hell, were they moving again already?  
  
Sam couldn’t really enjoy the rare opportunity to drive. Dad had taught him as soon as his feet could reach the pedals, “just in case.” Driving, unlike soccer and debate, was a valuable skill in hunting.   
  
He tried to concentrate on handling the car but couldn’t stop thinking about why Dean had come out to get him. Dean should be off celebrating with his first legal drink in a bar.   
  
“You taking us home?”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I thought—”  
  
Dean had to know that no matter how good the fake ID was, how tall Sam was, they were only courting trouble trying to get Sam into a bar with that baby face of his. He wouldn’t grow into a fake ID for years yet.   
  
“What?”  
  
Dean coughed. “Maybe you wanna hang out?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Take the next right.”  
  
Sam followed Dean’s directions as they followed the river and railroad tracks out of town.   
  
“Here.” And they were bouncing along two ruts in the grass, pitted with puddles deep enough to bounce his head off the roof.   
  
They were close enough to smell the river, even with the car sealed against the cold. But there was nothing to see but darkness all around the car.   
  
Oh. Dean had wanted to go somewhere and—blood rushed to swell his dick so fast he got lightheaded. He shifted in his seat and cut the headlights.   
  
Dean reached over and tipped back the ignition to keep the dashlights and the heater running.   
  
Sam was absurdly nervous. Like he hadn’t had Dean’s dick in his mouth this morning. Like he couldn’t still feel the sweet weight of him rolling over his tongue.  
  
“Sammy.”   
  
Sam tried to concentrate on whatever bad news Dean was going to give him instead of the throbbing pressure in his jeans. Maybe he could unbutton enough so that he didn’t end up with a zipper print.   
  
“I wanted to—you didn’t—jeez, Sammy.” Dean snapped the glove compartment open and lifted out the knife.   
  
“Oh.” The sudden relief that washed over him made Sam feel like giggling. And he was proud of that present. “I wanted to.”  
  
“It’s really nice. But you didn’t need to—”  
  
“I wanted to.”   
  
“Yeah, well don’t next time.” And Dean cuffed his head softly. It was as close to thank you as he was going to get.   
  
“Yeah, next time—” There’d be one next time and then—“Next time I’ll get you a sling, assuming you’ve still got an arm to put in it.”  
  
Dean dropped the knife back and slammed the glove compartment.  
  
“It’s fine, Sammy.” He brought his hands above his shoulders and tucked them behind his head, but even in the dim light, Sam could read the pain on his face.   
  
“Yeah. Fine.”  
  
Dean’s arm shot out and clipped the back of his head, not so gently this time.   
  
“Calling me a liar, Sammy?”  
  
It was a challenge, the kind that almost always led to them fooling around. And again he wondered why Dean was here instead of out. He knew Dean was still screwing girls—guys too, for all he knew—but Dean wasn’t likely to flaunt that in Dad’s face.   
  
He let Dean pull him over to meet his mouth. For a blissful minute, he didn’t think much. Taste, touch, listen, smell. He’d swear Dean still tasted like syrup, smelled dark and sweet. The leather of Dean’s jacket creaked and the buttery softness rubbed on his neck.   
  
Dad always wore leather, too, so did lots of people, but that smell, that sound would always be Dean.   
  
“You want to . . .?” Dean tipped his head toward the back seat.   
  
Hell yeah, he wanted to. Wanted Dean to grind against his aching dick so he didn’t have all these stupid thoughts in his head. Wanted to make his brother’s head roll back when he made him come. And as he thought about how good it felt to make his brother lose control like that, he wondered if that was why Dean was still fucking girls when they had this, because they hadn’t fucked. And if they did, maybe then Dean would come with him when he left.   
  
Sam pushed open the door to change seats, while Dean just launched himself over the seat back. Sam slid in next to him, but Dean stopped him before he could shut the door.   
  
“Leave us a little room.”  
  
“It’s freezing, Dean.”  
  
“You’re the one who’s going to complain about hitting his head.”   
  
A challenge again. Always a dare with Dean.  
  
He shoved his brother’s good shoulder, and Dean laughed as he fell against the door, twisting to keep his right shoulder safe.   
  
Sam wanted to see it, wanted Dean to look at the bruised skin Dad’s hunt had left on him, but when he shoved at Dean’s jacket, Dean said, “I thought you said it was cold.”  
  
“You going to get spunk on your jacket?”  
  
“Hell, Sammy. Where’d you get that dirty mouth?”  
  
“Borrowed it from you.”  
  
“Without asking as usual.” Dean kissed him again, his hand pushing off Sam’s coat.   
  
Sam shivered but he wasn’t cold. He pulled back and undid his jeans. He was lifting off the seat to get them over his ass when Dean sat up and said, “What are you doing?”  
  
Sam stopped. “It’s my last clean pair.”  
  
“All right. I’ll do laundry tomorrow. But for Chrissakes be careful of the upholstery.”  
  
“Why? It’s not like you don’t fuck girls back here.”  
  
“Ah shit, Sammy.” Dean looked straight ahead.  
  
“So?”  
  
“You know, you could, too. You should.” Dean kept his eyes fixed forward. The dark pressed in on them, the dashlight showing him almost nothing of Dean’s expression.   
  
“I’m not like that.”  
  
Dean jumped and turned to him.   
  
“What?”  
  
“I mean, I like girls like that, but I can’t—I can’t just do it like that, Dean.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“We’ll just leave and it seems so—” He sighed when he couldn’t get the right words to come.   
  
“Man, we’ve gotta get you laid.”  
  
“I’d only want to do it with someone I liked.”  
  
“Don’t get so worked up about it. You can’t take sex so seriously, Sammy. It’s just a good time.” Dean stared hard at the windshield again. And Sam would give anything to see his face.   
  
Sam wanted to punch him and kiss him at the same time, but mostly he just wanted to go to sleep and wake up and be 22 years old with his whole life figured out.   
  
“So why aren’t I having fun now?”  
  
“’Cause you’re not actually having sex.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So that’s _my_ problem?” But Dean arched up and slid his jeans and underwear off over his hips. Sam pushed him down, angling for that satiny press of Dean’s hard dick against his own. But before he could find the perfect friction, Dean laughed.   
  
“Don’t think you’re banging my head into the door.”  
  
Dean slid underneath him so that their hips were no longer aligned. Their shirts bunched up high on their chests, and Dean tugged Sam’s up higher with his teeth before licking the skin beneath.  
  
Holy crap that was hot. Sam wiggled down to get that friction back but his legs were too long and he couldn’t get the right leverage with them bent that way. The car was not the easiest place to fool around.   
  
“How do you do it?” Sam blurted out, and Dean laughed again.  
  
“Didja forget, Sammy?”  
  
“No, I mean when you have a—”  
  
“A girl? You want a play-by-play? That turn you on?”  
  
“God, no.” But half of him wasn’t sure Dean describing sex—even if it was with someone else—wouldn’t get him off faster than hell.  
  
“Well, for one, she’s always shorter than you. Sometimes she sits on my lap. And sometimes—”  
  
Sam lunged forward and cut Dean off with his mouth. Dean met him halfway, wrapping his tongue around Sam’s, battering his lips with the force of his kiss.   
  
He wriggled against Dean for a minute, trying to make the tangle of clothes, the cramped space work somehow. If he could get his knee to bend in a different direction, maybe he could push against the door and finally everything would work. But how the hell was he going to tell him they could . . . ask him to . . .  
  
He pulled Dean’s hand down from his shoulder to his ass. He understood the mechanics of it, had known what two men could do since listening to a conversation on a third grade playground. It had evoked the proper horrified gasps from Sam at the time, the same disgust he’d felt about the description of French kissing, but look how wrong he’d been about that.   
  
Dean gave his ass a hard squeeze before latching onto his hips. Sam tried to shift Dean’s hand again.   
  
“Dude, what?” Dean had pulled his mouth free and was panting in his ear.  
  
Sam ground his hips into Dean. Why couldn’t Dean just tell? “I—” He arched his back.  
  
“You got an itch or something?”  
  
“Uhh”   
  
Dean licked the skin below Sam’s ear. The rest of his brain function was sliding away with Dean’s tongue.   
  
“What do you want, Sammy? You want me to suck you off?”  
  
“Uhngh” Sam’s words were strangling on the rush of pleasure that image gave him. “Want . . .”  
  
Dean was nibbling now, a graze of teeth that made Sam’s whole body ache in the best possible way. “Fuck.”  
  
“Workin’ on it, Sammy.”   
  
Sam could hear the smile in Dean’s voice. He lifted his head out of range of Dean’s distracting mouth.   
  
“No. Fuck me.”  
  
Dean’s body froze under him.  
  
“What?”   
  
And since it was a little late to take it back, Sam repeated it, though his mouth had gotten so dry he had to lick his lips. “Fuck. Me.”  
  
“Oh, no.” Dean shoved him hard enough to push him back on his heels.   
  
Dean kept pushing until he could shift out from under him and sat back against the door.   
  
Even half-naked his angry brother still looked dangerous enough to take out anything that tried to fuck with him. Sam just felt stupid. His dick throbbed as some of that blood melted back into his thighs and hips, spreading the pain around.  
  
Then he was just pissed. Why did Dean get to have the final say over everything they did?  
  
“We are not doing that.” Dean said.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“You’re sixteen, Sam, you—”  
  
“I’m old enough to risk my life hunting things but not to decide what to do with my—”  
  
“Do not finish that sentence.” Dean’s eyes were glittering in the dark, and not with amusement.  
  
“And weren’t you just telling me to do it with a girl?”  
  
“That’s different.”  
  
“What happened to sex is just fun? Don’t get worked up about it?”  
  
“Well you are worked up about it and again: No.”  
  
“Why. Not.”  
  
“You’re still sixteen.”  
  
“That’s—”  
  
“And you’re my brother.”  
  
“But it’s all right to do the rest of this?”  
  
“Well . . .” Dean seemed to be trying to find something to look at that wasn’t connected to Sam or the fact that they were half-naked in the back seat of Dad’s car. “And you’re sixteen.”  
  
“I’m old enough to know what I want.”  
  
“Look, Sammy. I know you. And I’m telling you, let this go. Or we stop this now—all of this.”  
  
Sam felt sick. He’d only been trying to show Dean that they could give each other anything they needed, and now Dean was talking about stopping it all? He’d gone from _Fuck, I wanna come_ to _God, I wanna die_ in less than five seconds.   
  
His throat was really tight. He wouldn’t cry. Dean would never let him hear the end of that. “Are you saying you don’t want to do this anymore?”  
  
Dean no longer looked angry, but he still wouldn’t look at Sam’s face. “I didn’t say that.”  
  
“Sometimes.” Sam swallowed hard. “Sometimes I think I’d go crazy if I didn’t have this.”  
  
Sam’s heart and breath battled over space in his throat for another couple of seconds and then Dean leaned forward and put a hand on his neck. And now Sam couldn’t look at him.   
  
“Sammy. Sometimes I forget how fucking young you really are.”  
  
And that just made him feel so much better. Sam sucked in his lips and looked out the window.   
  
“You really can’t get so worked up about it. ‘Cause, well, ‘cause it freaks me a little.”  
  
Sam turned back to Dean. He had to know. “Have you ever done that?”  
  
“No.” Dean’s denial was immediate and forceful. He pulled his hand back and tugged on his neck with his left hand like he always did when he was embarrassed. “And, well, there haven’t even been any girls since the fall.”  
  
“What about that bartender in Essex?”  
  
“Just what you saw.”  
  
“But you didn’t come back all night.”  
  
“Slept in the car.” Dean was looking right at him now. “Well, Dad’s gotta see something, doesn’t he? He’s not gonna believe I’ve become a monk.”  
  
“We never said we wouldn’t.”  
  
“I know. I just haven’t.”   
  
Dean took an interest in the windshield again. Sam pursed his lips.   
  
“So, you gonna leave a guy hanging on his birthday?” Dean’s low rumble brought Sam’s erection back so hard and fast it was like the recoil of a shotgun echoing in his hips.   
  
“No.” He wet his lips, but before he could move, Dean was pressing him back against the door. Sam could breathe again. That weight pressed against him, hard angles, and Dean. It was all right again. And just as he slid down, straightening his legs, his skin remembered that slide of syrup, his nerves rebounding like an echo.   
  
Dean tongued his way across his stomach, biting the top of his hip.  
  
Sam squirmed and his head thunked against the door.   
  
“Told you we should have left the door open.” Dean held his hips steady as his words licked across Sam’s wet skin.   
  
“Don’t care.” Sam tried to push himself up to meet Dean’s mouth, but his brother’s bone-bruising grip wouldn’t budge.  
  
Dean licked the side of Sam’s cock, mouthed his balls, slid off to gnaw on his hip again. Not teasing, but arousing, printing his possession on Sam’s body.   
  
_Need, want, now!_ pounded in his blood. He almost managed to dislodge Dean’s grip as finally that hot wet mouth swallowed the tip. Dean was in the mood to draw things out, and Sam really wasn’t. Then he changed his mind because nothing was ever going to feel better than the slow, deep suck of Dean’s mouth on his dick.   
  
Dean let him rock up to meet him. The door handle dug into his back and the twist in his neck should be killing him but his body refused to acknowledge any discomfort, lost in those long, wet strokes, the scrape of teeth and the lavish pressure of Dean’s tongue.   
  
He knew he was babbling again, couldn’t stop the curses and pleas that spilled from his mouth as he rushed toward orgasm, even though he knew Dean would recall a particularly ridiculous statement to tease him.  
  
Dean tongue was moving with more purpose now, finding spots that just needed that extra pressure. His thighs were trembling, and his hips moved as much as they could under Dean’s tight grip and even that immobilization felt good, a part of the struggle to get exactly where he needed to be, drowning in that hot rush, coming on a long, low groan.   
  
When his breath slowed and his brain began to work again, he realized his dick and stomach were all sticky with come. Dean had pulled off him. Strange, since he was so damned worried about the freaking upholstery.   
  
Dean was on his knees, rubbing Sam’s come over his cock, eyelids dropping as he concentrated on his dick.  
  
Sam reached for him but Dean leaned away.   
  
“Roll over.”  
  
And Sam had never heard two scarier or sexier words in his entire life. His stomach flipped and his dick stirred back to life in that rush of nervous excitement. He twisted on the seat, and things low and dark inside him twisted around his hips. Now, with his ass tipped toward Dean, a little more fear began to creep in, but you couldn’t tell by the way his dick was rubbing against the wadded jeans under him as if it hadn’t just had the come sucked out of it by Dean’s beautiful mouth.   
  
“Close your legs.” Dean pushed his thighs together, pushed him down into the seat and Sam’s dick just loved it.   
  
When Dean’s hands gripped his hips, he almost jumped out of his skin. He forced himself to take a deep breath and relax. Dean wouldn’t . . . and then he felt Dean’s cock, sticky with his come, push between his thighs so the head came up right at his balls. Sam didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. With a hard grind and thrust, Dean’s hips snapping up against him, driving his cock into his balls and it was almost as if Dean was fucking him.  
  
His dick rocked against the jeans with the rhythm of his brother driving between his thighs. Dean’s hands left his hips and stroked up under his shirt, firm and rough on the muscles over his ribs, shoving Sam’s shirt up higher and higher until he could get his mouth on Sam’s back.   
  
He sucked on the skin over his shoulder blade, the skin there already so tight that the pressure really hurt, but the burst of pain just electrified his dick more, made him work himself harder against the folds of denim.   
>  
“That’s it, Sammy. Move with me.” Dean breath was on his ear, and his teeth closed over his lobe. “Gonna come again?” Dean left a wet kiss beneath his ear.  
  
“Fu--uck yeah.”   
  
As Sammy rocked back against his thrusts, Dean fought against the temptation to look down, to watch his dick slide in under Sam’s ass, because he was that close to giving in. And if he did, he might as well take the knife Sammy had given him and bury it in his own gut. He was not taking his 16 year old brother’s virginity. They were not going to cross that line, not even for Sammy’s wounded puppy look. Dean muttered a quick _Thank god_ that Sammy hadn’t called his bluff because he didn’t know if he could stop doing this with his baby brother, no matter how deep down to hell it dragged him.   
  
This, God, this. This he could excuse because it was something Sammy said he needed, and if Dean needed it too, he could keep that bit to himself. No matter what, this had felt right from the moment that wrestling match last year had gone from did-you-just-get-hard to deliberate rubbing till they both came in their pants. But Dean would never forgive himself if Sam pushed them into something neither was ready for.  
  
It was almost funny how one of his own favorite arguments had been so neatly turned on him. How many times had he urged “It seems silly to do everything but that, sweetheart.” And here was Sammy trying the same thing.   
  
No, he wouldn’t look but fuck if his imagination wasn’t just as bad. Sammy’s ass was right in his belly, and Dean’s dick stretched that tight skin as it plowed between his brother’s thighs. It would be so fucking easy to shift up. He wouldn’t penetrate him, he could just ride that crease, and God, he was not going to risk it.   
  
He sped up his thrusts; the sooner he came, the sooner the temptation would fade. Sammy clamped his thighs around him, bucked up into him, his body rolling with long shudders as he came. Sammy’s moans pushed him that much closer to the edge.  
  
Dean wrapped his arms around Sammy and dropped his head on his shoulder, jerking through those last strokes. Later, he’d swear it wasn’t a conscious decision. His muscles just took over and tipped his hips forward, and he slid up the crack of Sammy’s ass, his dick shooting right up Sammy’s back.   
  
His heart was pounding in his chest, in the deep under skin bruises of his shoulder. Sammy’s back was still shifting with his heavy breaths, the shudders of his orgasm. Fucking hell, he wanted to do that again, and more.   
  
Dean collapsed onto Sam, rolling them into one sticky ball on the seat and waited for the guilt to drop on his head like a blow from a hammer. Fuck that was close.  
  
“Man, you’re freaking heavy.”  
  
“Shut up, Sammy.”   
  
“No. C’mon, Dean, this is really uncomfortable.”  
  
Dean picked up his head. Sammy’s head was against the door at a neck breaking angle. Dean sat back on his heels.   
  
Sammy peeled himself up from the seat and looked at the jeans twisted around Dean’s calves. “Goddamn it to hell, these were my jeans.”  
  
Dean started laughing.  
  
“And you trashed my shirt, too.”  
  
“Want to hide naked in the car while I find an all night laundromat?”  
  
“No, I’ll just—you think Dad’ll—”  
  
“Dad’s having one of his chair nights. I don’t think he’ll notice.”  
  
Sammy held his shirt away from his back. “Eww, that’s cold.”  
  
“Ah hell. Here.” Dean ripped off his flannel and tossed it to Sammy. “But you’re-heh-stuck with those jeans.”  
  
“Freaking hilarious, Dean.”


End file.
